


we don't need no education

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Um," says Scott. "I don't think first-grade teachers have mortal enemies."</p><p>"Bullshit," says Stiles, driving him off Rainbow Road one-handed, while marking a math test.</p><p>The one where Stiles is a slightly subpar first grade teacher with an affinity for arts and craft, and Derek is his nemesis-that-doesn't-know-it, with a jawline that could cut a bitch and a strange obsession with following the rules. </p><p>Oh boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we don't need no education

**Author's Note:**

> It's the elementary school teacher!au that you never knew you needed. It came very close to being called hot for teacher and I will not apologize for that.
> 
> Disclaimer because I'm not American or a teacher and there are probably a lot of discrepancies with accuracy and spelling and such. You guys are kind of weird. please stop using the imperial system. what even is a mile.
> 
> on another note I'm new to the fandom and know precisely nobody. hit me up I'm pretty lonely. 
> 
> you can find me at culaccinoo on tumblr. follow me. please. I have no friends.

To be fair, Stiles hadn't set out to become a first grade teacher in his hometown. In fact, it had been the furthest thing from his mind when he left for college (that had been mainly _beer sex food parties_ ). It had just happened.  
  
One minute he's in a computer programming course at UCLA, envisioning a life in Silicon Valley with a bitch-ass mansion and like, three different sports cars (with matching underwear models in the passenger seat, hell yes) and the next he's back in Beacon Hills, up to his ass in glitter, with paint and glue smeared across his face.   
  
He's aware it's kind of an unconventional career choice, considering the spectacularly shitty pay, but hey. The more he thought about going into IT, the more his soul kind of shrivelled into his ribcage a little bit, and then suddenly he was walking across campus to his next lecture and it hit him out of nowhere. Like he was Mary, and an angel had come down to show him the light. Except instead of giving birth to Jesus, Stiles' true path in life was to become an elementary school teacher. God had spoken, and Stiles had _listened_.  
  
Next thing he knew, he was standing in a classroom at Beacon Hills Elementary, scared shitless. All the kids had turned to blink at him with huge, expectant eyes like _hello we depend on you to build our foundation for the rest of our lives_ , and he had nearly backed out then and there. But it had turned out to be the best decision of his life. Seriously. Despite his own incompetence, he loves pretty much everything about his job.  
  
Well. Except for Derek Hale.

 

* * *

  
  
"So, when we're looking at words like these," Stiles says, gesturing to the whiteboard smarmily, "the trick is to remember...?"  
  
"I before E, except after C," the class choruses obediently, some with more enthusiasm than others. Jack Gardener, in particular, looks like he's thinking about stabbing himself in the eye with his kid-safe scissors. Which, Stiles would have to admit, be a new low in his teaching career, if kind of hilarious. Clara in the back is staring fixedly at Anna's braids, as if at any moment she might hack them off and make a run for it.   
  
Stiles is just about to get them to repeat it because he's a sadist, but the shrill ring of the bell cuts his words in half. The kids sit up so straight it's fucking comical; twenty pairs of pathetic, wide eyes looking at Stiles like he holds the key to their salvation. Well actually, upon thinking about it, he kind of does.  
  
He waits a little more. There's an indistinct whimper from the back of the classroom. It's probably Kevin.  
  
"Okay, superheroes, that's the lunch bell," Stiles says, and claps his hands, walking backwards a bit in preparation for the mayhem. He hadn't gotten it down last year- being new- and sustained more than a couple of injuries for his ignorance.  
  
The class explodes into the general joyful chaos of a bunch of hyperactive seven-year olds scrambling to get out of the classroom- one chair falls victim to Casey Elwood's flailing limbs, and crashes to the floor, while Sarah Kave is so consumed with ecstasy that she runs headfirst into the door. She's knocked back sharply, and her bottom lip trembles.  
  
Stiles is reaching out to see if she's okay, but the kid is already back on her feet and out into the hallway, momentary injury forgotten in favor of stuffing her face with D-grade cafeteria food. He'll never understand the sheer resilience of first graders. They can be screaming in pain one moment and then go back to attempting to give themselves an impromptu haircut the next.   
  
He loves them.  
  
Whistling some shitty dance tune he heard on Scott's playlist, Stiles rights the chair, grabs his container of leftover takeout- full of deep-fried goodness- and makes his way to the staff room down the hall, dodging a particularly excited third-grader on the way. He's feeling pretty good today actually; he's taking the kids out to Finstock for P.E after lunch, which is always amusing, and then he's got a kickass lesson on patterns to finish the day. Plus, he's got two episodes of Game of Thrones to watch tonight and Oberyn Martell is like, _smoking_.   
  
He shoulders the door, ignoring the coffee machine that has a problem with producing anything that doesn't taste like shit, and heads straight for Allison, slumping down next to her at the large centre table. Ah, Allison Argent, actual Disney princess come to life. She teaches second grade, is a former Olympic archer, and is also the love of Scott's life. Stiles' best friend had seen her last year, when he dropped Stiles off in the morning.   
  
Scott had almost reversed into a fence in his total rapture with Allison's dark silky hair and long legs, and there had been a sharp increase in his offers to accompany Stiles to any school-related events. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't probably the funniest thing Stiles had ever seen. Scott practically begged to pick him up from parent-teacher conferences now. Suck on that, Mr. Veterinarian.  
  
"Hey," Allison says. She flashes her perfect, dimpled grin, and Stiles' cold, cold heart melts a little bit. "I have had the most awful morning. You know Henry Atkins?"  
  
_Oh god_. Stiles is hit with a tornado of genuinely terrifying flashbacks to last year. What a kid to have in his first ever class. Stiles is convinced that it was karma for how much of an uncontrollable shit he used to be when he was little.  
  
"Shit, do I ever," Stiles shudders, leaning backwards and parking his sneakers on the table exactly like Principal Martin had banned him from doing. Whatever. He digs at his food. "Brat hurled his glue stick at me last year, hit me straight in the forehead." He pauses, remembering it with a little awe. "I had a bruise for a month. I was kind of impressed, actually. Like, what kind of seven year old has _that_ good of an aim?"  
  
"He drew on Angela's face this morning." Allison sighs, downcast. "In permanent marker. She started crying hysterically because it wouldn't come off, you know, and I had to send him outside. Except, I went to go get him again, and he wasn't there. Turns out he'd walked all the way out to the playground. He was hanging on the monkey bars without a shirt. _Laughing._ "  
  
"Are we talking about Henry Atkins?" Isaac interjects, sweeping into the room with his patented Dramatic Entrance. The guy is incapable of not making a statement. He's wearing one of his ever-present, ever-stylish scarves, his blond hair curling loosely at his temples because he's just wildly attractive like that. Stiles has a running bet with Danny the IT guy on Isaac's history as a model. They'll find the photoshoots eventually. Someday.  
  
Isaac takes the chair next to Stiles, with far more grace than Stiles could have ever managed. He teaches kindergarten, and is kind of amazingly adorable with his stupid angel cheekbones, which Stiles would never admit to thinking. If it isn't for the fact that Isaac is also head over heels for Allison, Stiles would probably be all over that.  
  
Because he's easy.  
  
"Yeah," Allison says. "You know him?"  
  
Isaac swallows. "He told me to fuck off when he was in my class. God knows where he got it from. And then all the rest of them started chanting at me- _fuck you, fuck you_ \- and I had a class of five year-olds swearing at me for like, fifteen minutes. I was _this_ close to crying."  
  
Which is more proof that Henry Atkins is literally Satan. Nobody makes Isaac cry. It's against some international law or something.  
  
"That's weird," says a voice from Stiles' left. "I've never had any trouble from him."   
  
Great. It's Derek.  
  
"Hey Derek," says Allison, because she's a wonderful human-being incapable of rudeness.  
  
_Of course you haven't had any trouble,_ Stiles thinks bitterly. _You probably have woodland creatures following you around like some sort of manly Snow White._ Out loud, he says, "Well, you haven't taught him."  
  
Derek smiles at Stiles, taking the seat across from him. "I took your class for a week last year, actually. Hey Stiles." Stiles seethes. "How are you?"  
  
The problem with Derek Hale is that it is literally impossible to hate him. And Stiles has _tried_ , okay, he's tried really fucking hard. Ever since the moment a bratty kid stood up in Stiles' class on his second day and announced that "Mr Hale is _way_ better than you," he's been nursing a serious grudge.   
  
But the guy has never been anything but polite and nice and he even subbed for Stiles last year when he was taking leave. On his _leave._ The kids adore him, like, hardcore, and he's really good with them, and all the staff love him because he's a stickler for the rules, and they give him their food and the parents actually listen to him instead of extolling their kid's perfection. It's infuriating.   
  
And he is seriously hot. Like, Stiles had seen him at swimming lessons last year okay? He's got these green eyes and dark hair and eyebrows like really attractive caterpillars. His abs are carved out of marble or some shit, it's ridiculous. And his jawline could cut glass.  
  
Not fair.   
  
"I'm okay," Stiles mutters, stabbing at his significantly less-appealing deep-fried nutrition.   
  
"Our classes are combining for P.E after lunch, right?" Derek asks pleasantly. He takes out- of all things- a salad. Stiles sneers at it. Stupid healthy douchebag. He probably drinks kale juice. Boring. Everything about Derek is boring. He like, sleeps with the school rules under his pillow, absorbing them through osmosis or some shit. He didn't even join in playing roller-chair derby last year.   
  
"Yes," Stiles bites out, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth and choking on them briefly. His life flashes before his eyes. It's kind of disappointing. Allison pats him on the back roughly, while Isaac studiously ignores his near-death episode. It's okay; Stiles loves him anyway.  
  
"Cool. Finstock can deal with them for a little bit." Derek laughs, which can't be an ugly laugh, no, it has to be appealing and rich and dark and _why is he using words that describe chocolate to talk about Derek's laugh-_  
  
Okay. Look. Stiles is a healthy bisexual twenty-four year old guy. He's had thoughts, yeah, about Derek Hale, but so has everyone. Even the principal has been known to check his magnificent butt out from time to time- and Lydia is about as close to an ice queen as you could get. But the important thing is that he doesn't feed Derek's ego even more and fawn over him, like that stupid lunch lady Joanne who sneaks Derek an extra cookie and refuses to acknowledge Stiles' existence, or the receptionist who _clearly_ undoes her shirt one button lower whenever Derek enters Admin. Which, come on Tiffany. Have some self-respect.  
  
So Stiles nods curtly at him, throws some more fries in his face and stews in silence for the remainder of lunch. And he can't even be relieved when the bell rings because now he has to watch his kids clamber all over Mr Hale and beg to be part of his pack, which- pack? That's fucking cringeworthy.   
  
Superheroes are way cooler.  
  
"Let's go," Derek says, standing up. "I think it's dodgeball today."  
  
" _Awesome_ ," says Stiles, with a little more savagery than the situation calls for. Allison kicks him.   
  
(Stiles does definitely not aim for Derek's face. Nope. Not at all.)

 

* * *

  
  
"Um," says Scott. "I don't think first-grade teachers have mortal enemies."  
  
"Bullshit," says Stiles, driving him off Rainbow Road one-handed, while marking a math test. "He's my nemesis, Scott. It's my mission to destroy him." Stiles pauses. "Not literally, because that's totally illegal and Dad would kill me. But figuratively, I'm totally gonna take him down with my awesome teaching skills and like, glitter and shit."  
  
"Okay," Scott says, looking at him dubiously. "And does Derek know this? Because, dude. That sounds kind of intense."  
  
"Well." Stiles considers it, and pushes Scott off the road for the third time in a row. There's a chorus of quiet and miserable swearing. "Not yet. But he will. We're going to have a rivalry that the entire school will be talking about for decades to come."  
  
"Or until next month," Scott says.  
  
"Or until next month," Stiles agrees.  
  
Stiles finishes his final lap and Scott joins the stars once again, his car flaming into the atmosphere. Scott throws down the wheel like he's five and not twenty-four. "Why do I even bother?" he whines. "You always win."  
  
"Yeah," Stiles agrees absently, flipping the page on the test. "Hey look at this, Jack drew me a dinosaur instead of answering the question. I'm gonna give it a mark."   
  
"Stiles I don't think-"  
  
"Shut up Scott. It's a good dinosaur."  
  
"Okay."

 

* * *

  
  
_This is how it ends_ , he thinks. _Not with a bang, but with parent-teacher conferences._  
  
"Mr Stilinski, we've had him tested outside of school, and he is clearly of superior intelligence. And- we only discovered this recently- he makes _patterns_ in his vegetables."  
  
Stiles' eye twitches.   
  
"Well," he says, to the extremely enthusiastic Mrs Woodsen, "Kevin is a great kid but I'm not sure he's, uh, intellectually superior to any of his peers. I'd describe him more as..."  
  
_Thick as a fucking brick._ The kid's gone beyond not being the brightest crayon in the box. At this point, Kevin would probably eat the box of crayons and start crying when he shat out colours.  
  
"...socially inclined," Stiles finishes. He smiles. The woman looks as if he's stabbed her son instead of kindly bypassing the question of whether he was fucking dropped on his head as an infant.  
  
"But-"  
  
"Oh would you look at that," Stiles says. "It's time for the next one."  
  
It's not. This is the last appointment, but he is freaking incapable of dealing with this for any longer. He needs to go home and drown himself in a sea of vodka and regret.   
  
"Oh," she says. "Well. Okay. Thank you, Mr Stilinski. I'll talk to you soon."   
  
_Please_ , he thinks, _Jesus- I know we're not best bros, but I'd really appreciate it if I never had to see this woman's face again. Amen._ "Bye, then," he says, twisting his mouth into a smile that probably looks like his idea of a good time is dissecting people and keeping their internal organs in jars. "Your child is wonderful."  
  
Lies. All lies.  
  
She gets up and totters away on leopard-print heels, in imminent danger of twisting an ankle. Stiles hopes she does, and then breaks her leg, and then has to move states for medical care. He is a Bad Person.  
  
Groaning, he lets his head slam down into his desk. Parents are the worst. It's not their little angel's fault that they can't spell the word cat, _no-_ it's obviously Stiles that is the problem. Obviously, because he totally doesn't spend hours at night thinking up lesson plans or marking, or constructing improbable models of volcanoes with food dye and an inordinate amount of glitter. No. He's a _slacker_.  
  
Stiles packs up his stuff, stretching and thinking longingly of alcohol. It's only eight-thirty, and all he can visualise is a soft bed and at least three bottles of PBR. It's gross but it's all he can afford. Because he's broke. And sad.   
  
And- he realizes, as he leaves the school building and enters what appears to be the fucking Arctic Circle- cold.  
  
There's only one other person at the parking lot at this time of night, and Stiles shuffles away from them, scanning the road for Scott, shoving his hands in his pockets dementedly in a bid to avoid frostbite. He'd left the Jeep at home because he really couldn't afford gas today, and regrets it severely. Why is October such a bitch? Why is Scott late all the time? So many questions, so little answers.  
  
"Stiles."  
  
He whips around, going to the teeny bottle of mace in his pocket, ready to beat the fuck out of whatever serial killer is here to murder and dismember him. Not this time, Jason Vorhees. Not this time. There will be no chunks of tragically young first-grade teacher scattered among the bushes tonight. _He will not become an episode on Dateline._  
  
But it turns out that it's Derek Hale that's in front of him, looking at Stiles somewhat askance. "Hey," he says, and shuffles awkwardly.   
  
Oh. Stiles puts down the mace and looks at it, betrayed. Now he's revealed his weapon to the enemy. "Hey," he says reluctantly. "Derek."  
  
"Finished with the interviews?" Derek asks. He's wearing what looks to be the warmest coat in existence, and Stiles lusts after it with the firey intensity he normally reserves for porn stars and Starbucks.   
  
"What? Oh. Yeah." Stiles kicks the ground, cursing the shirt he'd decided was both professional and casual. Too casual, apparently, as it resulted in an impromptu and somewhat disturbing game of footsie with an overeager single dad. Boundaries. Stiles _has them_. "Ready to go home and get drunk," he jokes. "You?"  
  
Derek sends him a frown. "Parent teacher interviews are a valuable source of communication. I find them to be very helpful in improving my relationship with the class."  
  
Are you a literal handbook? Are you a teaching model come to life? _Do you even?_ Stiles stares at him, irrational hatred flaring to life. He's going to mug Derek Hale and steal his coat.  
  
"Uh," he says. "Sure."  
  
Derek pauses, looking unsure, and his frown fades, his mouth turning down. "So I take it they didn't go very well?" he asks hesitantly.  
  
Stiles sighs, wishing for Scott to show up. "Do they ever? Between the whole 'my child is perfect' gig and the blatant flirting, I'm like this freaking close to going Doctor Horrible on their asses." He realises belatedly that Derek probably spends his free time doing yoga or volunteering at soup kitchens for blind orphans or whatever, and doesn't have a clue what a TV is, let alone Neil Patrick Harris' masterpiece.  
  
Luckily he's saved the indignity of explaining the concept of a superhero musical by Scott's car- a three year old Toyota that Stiles is convinced eats the souls of lesser vehicles- drawing into the parking lot. The window winds down, and without a word, Scott tosses him a bottle of beer. Stiles' trauma must be writ clear across his face.  
  
"Scott," he cries. "My one, my only. Light of my life. Beautiful cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too-"  
  
"Get in the car, dude," Scott says, but he's grinning. Stiles blows him a kiss.   
  
"See ya Derek," he says. The guy looks weirdly sad, standing there alone in his deliciously warm coat. Stiles considers offering him a lift but- nah. Fuck it. He's been enough of a martyr tonight to spend time in a confined space with Derek Hale.  
  
"Bye Stiles," Derek says, lifting a hand to wave. His eyebrows wave too, which is kind of weird but also amusing.   
  
_"That's_ Derek?" Scott asks, when Stiles is seated in shotgun and is in the process of pouring copious amounts of alcohol down his throat.   
  
"Yeah," Stiles says. "In all his irritating glory."  
  
"He looks different than what I thought."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. I thought he'd be all smarmy and stuff. He kind of looks like a really depressed mountain man."  
  
"That's..." Stiles trails off, thinking about Derek's biceps, and then gets angry at himself for it. "Not an invalid comparison."  
  
Scott nods, deep in thought, as he navigates the road. Stiles gives him, like, two minutes before he breaks. Maybe one.  
  
There's a silence only punctuated by Stiles swallowing more shitty beer.  
  
"So," Scott says fake-casually. "Did you see Allison today?"  
  
Boom. Stiles drinks to celebrate his internal victory. "Yeah," he says, "saw her when we had playground duty. Told me all about her new boyfriend. Apparently has a PhD and the Guinness World Record for biggest dick."  
  
Scott's face falls. "I can't compete with that," he says despondently. Stiles loves him but bless his socks, he's beyond help. He really is.  
  
"Dude, I was joking. Besides, nobody actually _wants_ the record for biggest penis. You'd get a grand total of like, no one who would want it shoved in their bodily orifices."  
  
Scott perks up immediately. "Oh yeah," he says. "I didn't think of that."  
  
Stiles sighs and takes another drink as they draw up to his apartment. It's in the centre of town, by which he means that it's above the bakery and across from the all-purpose pet store. He'd rented it because it was just far enough away from his dad to let him relax, and close enough to still bring over laundry. A win-win. Well, it was spectacularly awful, but whatever. Live and let live, or something like that. He doesn't really care; the bakery doesn't lock their wifi so he can stream as many Walking Dead episodes on Netflix as he likes.   
  
"I'll see you on Saturday right?"Stiles asks, finishing the last of the beer, eager to stay in the warmth of the car. He makes it a weekly habit to hand Scott's ass to him via Mario Kart and COD.  
  
"Yeah," Scott says. "Maybe one time you could invite Allison?" He looks so heartbreakingly hopeful and Stiles has never had it in him to deny Scott McCall anything when he's using those puppy eyes.   
  
"Sure, dude."  
  
"Awesome!" Scott's face lights up. "I bet she'd be great at Mario Kart."  
  
I bet she would, Stiles thinks, and hops out of the car. "Thanks bro," he calls, and watches Scott disappear into the night.   
  
He climbs to the stairs, enters, and is greeted by a stack of dirty dishes and a pile of first-grade spelling tests that need marking. Stiles wonders vaguely whether he can do it drunk. Probably. It'll be a challenge.   
  
Fighting off a strange sense of loneliness, Stiles cracks open his liquor cabinet. Time to get _wasted._

 

* * *

  
  
"Okay superheroes," Stiles calls, voice echoing around the gym. His kids pay absolutely no mind, proceeding to instead go _absolutely freaking mental_ , running across the wooden floor and causing Stiles' hair to grey prematurely.   
  
The police officers at the front of the room are wearing judgy-faces. Just because they're officers of the law, Jesus. They'll probably go straight to his dad and tell him what a fuck-up his son is. Which, okay, they might be right, but still. Rude. They should be ashamed of their hypothetical-selves.  
  
Derek's class is, of course, lined up in freakishly neat pairs, chatting quietly with each other. A couple of the girls play that hand-clappy thing, and the boys stare in awe at the action figure that one of them is waving around in triumph. Derek surveys them with a proud fondness, a perfect example of paternal, affectionate mentor.  
  
"Kevin," Stiles says, "pull your damn pants up. I'm not kidding."  
  
Kevin blinks at him, as if he hadn't realised his trousers were pooled around his ankles. Actually, knowing him, he hadn't. Jack Gardener gives Kevin a look of weariness that his face seems to young to hold, and pulls up Kevin's pants for him.  
  
"Superheroes," Stiles tries again, "we have a very important talk today, and I want you all to be on best behaviour-"  
  
"Mr S," Anna wails, stamping her foot, "Clara said my hair is stupid."  
  
Stiles sighs and puts a hand to his temples, wishing just this once for a break. "Your hair is lovely, Anna. Clara and I will have a talk later."   
  
Clara looks horrified, and, in a desperate bid for mercy, throws her arms around Anna and showers her in compliments. _Child, thou art fickle._  
  
" _I_ wanna hear the talk," Patrick Morris says, tugging at Stiles' sleeve. If Stiles had a favourite, which he totally doesn't because all seven year olds are created equal, but if he _did_ \- it would be Patrick.   
  
He could say a lot of sappy shit about how Pat reminds him of himself when he was a kid- spazzy, too much of a mouth to get along with the others, weird fascination with reptiles- but as true as that might be, the kid is so sweet he brings on cavities.   
  
"I know you do," Stiles says. "And we will."  
  
Derek glances over at him, and then claps his hands. As if God himself had told them to shut their mouths, Stiles' class falls quiet, staring in awe. Stiles feels his self-esteem take yet another nose dive, and he glares at Derek.  
  
"I think you should all listen to Mr S," Derek says, "or we'll have to cancel the talk and go back to do some math. Do you want that?"   
  
His class practically shit themselves. Kevin is actually crying.   
  
"Sorry, Mr Hale," they whine, and fall right into line. Stiles gapes in indignation. _How._  
  
"I think we can get on with the talk now?" says Boyd- the burly dark-skinned police officer. He works with Stiles' dad; they've had a couple of conversations but nothing beyond that really. All Stiles knows is that Boyd could probably kill him with a finger. And the woman next to him, Erica- the deputy and Boyd's fiancee- could do it with less than that. She inspires both feelings of arousal and pants-wrecking terror. A fear-boner, Stiles is pretty sure that's called.   
  
"Sure," he stutters at them, and follows Derek to the chairs they've set up for the teachers. They're plastic and uncomfortable, but infinitely better than sitting on the floor like the kids.  
  
"So, kids," Erica says, "we're here to talk about stranger danger. Any idea what that is?" Kevin puts up his hand. Stiles puts his face in his palms and tries not to sob.  
  
"It's when you take candy from murderers," Kevin says wisely.   
  
Derek snorts. "What have you been teaching him?"  
  
Stiles bristles. "Exactly what I've been teaching the others. Not my fault he's..." Stiles cuts himself off, reminded of the fact that he's sitting next to the Best Teacher Ever.  
  
"Special?" Derek offers. It takes Stiles a while to realize he's smirking. Huh. Hale's got a sense of humor.  
  
"In a class of his own," Stiles agrees.  
  
"Don't worry, Erica's used to them. She was forced into running the education program. Just wait until she breaks out the puppets." Derek grins.   
  
"You know them?"  
  
Derek nods. "I went to high school with them. They wanted me to come into law enforcement with them, but..." He shrugs. "It was always kids, you know?"  
  
"No, I mean- yes. Sort of. Not really." Stiles kicks himself internally. Way to further destroy his teaching cred.   
  
"Did you not want to be a teacher?"  
  
Stiles makes an 'eh' face. "I was gonna go into IT at first, you know, at UCLA. Quit because I hated it. Decided, hey, I want to spend the rest of my life buying up all of Walmart's sticker packs. Came back here."  
  
That is probably the most he's ever said to Derek in one sitting, except for last year's staff Christmas party, where he vaguely remembers extolling the many virtues of Daenerys claiming the Iron Throne. She totally should though.  
  
But Derek nods like he gets it. They sit in silence, watching Erica and Boyd terrify a bunch of seven year olds into never talking to another person again. And true to Derek's word, there are actual puppets, one of whom looks disfigured, which is enough to land this episode in Stiles' deepest nightmares- right up there with sharks and Daryl dying on the Walking Dead.   
  
Beside him, Derek is smirking at the openly horrified look on Stiles' face, the dick. "I told you," he says.   
  
"How did this get approved for children?" Stiles hisses, and Derek laughs- outright _laughs._  
  
"If the adults could quiet down?" Erica asks snidely, and the kids give a simultaneous _'ooh'_. Little shits.  
  
"Sorry," Stiles calls out. "Carry on."  
  
Erica bares her teeth. Stiles cowers back in the seat.   
  
The rest of the talk goes alright- none of the children injure themselves or someone else, so Stiles counts it as a success. And as a bonus, when they file out of the gym, they're all too scared to talk much. So Stiles can enjoy the sweet, sweet quiet while it lasts.   
  
"Hey," Derek says, just as they're about to lead their respective flocks in different directions. "I like Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog, too."  
  
"What?" Stiles asks.  
  
"Last week, after the conferences." Derek hesitates, now looking a little embarrassed. "I watch it too."  
  
"Oh," Stiles says, surprised. Maybe he's not such a mountain man after all. Not that it makes a difference. He's still a dick. "Cool."  There's a painfully awkward pause.  
  
Derek goes red, and opens his mouth. "I'll see you," he says, sounding like someone has told him that his gym is closing down and they're out of protein powder. "Come on, pack." And then he practically makes the kids sprint after him to their classroom. One child trips and begins to cry. Apparently, Derek does not believe in the philosophy of no man left behind.  
  
"Weird," says Patrick, from Stiles' left. He narrows his eyes at Derek's back. "I wouldn't take candy from him."  
  
Stiles is inclined to agree.

 

* * *

  
  
Staff meetings are, and always will be, the highlight of the week.  
  
Stiles is aware this is probably the most unusual opinion to ever exist. On all the teacher forums he visits to console himself that _no, he's not actually the worst at his job,_ they all complain about staff meetings like someone's shoved a fork through their scrotum. Or lady-bits. Let's not be gender-specific.  
  
But most schools don't have- in fact, no other school has- Lydia Martin as its principal. Ah, Lydia. Stiles is convinced that she's a goddess sent to earth to reside in human form and drive it home to mere mortals just how inadequate they are. With long red hair, a wicked-smart mind and an ass that makes Stiles light-headed, she's the only one who can reduce him to mute agreement.  
  
Such as now.  
  
"Stiles," Lydia says, and blinks innocently. "We were talking about how perhaps, more professionalism is needed in work attire. Have anything to add?"  
  
Stiles looks down at his shirt, which is bright green and has the words: _ask me about my T-Rex_ printed on it. When he pulls it over his head, there's a picture of a dinosaur that goes over his face. He swallows.  
  
"Um," he says. "I like dinosaurs?"  
  
"Wait, are you saying that it's not an innuendo?" Danny pipes up.   
  
"No!" Stiles says. "You think I'd wear a sex shirt to work? I teach _seven year olds_."  
  
Danny shrugs. "Well-"  
  
"Boys, shut up," Lydia says sweetly. "Stiles, I want sweater vests. Button-ups. You can keep the jeans, but if I see another graphic tee, I'll have your ass. Is that clear, Stilinski?"   
  
Stiles nods. "Crystal." His voice sounds like he's suddenly been replaced by a pre-pubescent twelve year old who's been punched in the nuts.  
  
Beside him, Danny cackles and kicks his ankle. _Sucker_ , his face says. Stiles has changed his mind. He hates Danny, he hates staff meetings and he hates Lydia. Now he's going to have to go shopping at Walmart- which, like IKEA and parent-teacher conferences, makes Stiles believe wholeheartedly in eugenics. And he has to spend money on clothes instead of beer. This day has gone spectacularly downhill.  
  
"It's okay," Danny whispers, as if he can read minds. "We can go to the Jungle tonight."  
  
"It's Wednesday," Stiles hisses.  
  
Danny shrugs. "Half-price drinks."  
  
Stiles hesitates. He's got his lesson plans all done, marking finished- and hell, he hasn't got laid in months.   
  
"Okay," he says.  
  
"Excuse me boys," Lydia cuts in, smooth as silk. Also twice as likely to strangle you in your sleep. "Derek was just giving us a briefing on how changes to the lunch menu would be beneficial to the children. Unless you'd prefer to go clubbing now?"  
  
Stiles wants to _die_. He raises his eyes to Derek- who is attired in an apparently acceptable turtleneck- and mutters a 'sorry.' Danny looks sheepish too, but not as much because he's totally bros with Lydia's husband- Jackson Whittemore, hotshot lawyer and dickbag extraordinaire. And the fact that Jackson gets to see Lydia's chest daily in no way influences Stiles' dislike at all, okay? The guy drives a _Porsche_.  
  
"It's fine," Derek says, and pulls out a healthy eating chart. "I'll get going."  
  
_I wish you would_ , Stiles thinks bitterly, and only feels the tiniest bit guilty when he sees the effort Derek's put into the presentation. He probably has zero social life.   
  
Unlike Stiles, who is totally going to get it tonight. Score one for Stilinski.

 

* * *

  
  
As it turns out, score none for Stilinski.   
  
It had all been going fine- he had a hot guy grinding on him, they'd made unnecessary small talk totally ignoring their respective hard-ons, and then Stiles had taken Luke- Lucas? Whatever. He'd taken him back to his place. They'd been on the couch, making out, everything swell. Lucas had been sucking a hickey the size of a small country onto Stiles' neck, when Stiles had reached for the belt buckle and-  
  
Well, it turns out Stiles was Lucas' first taste of the rainbow, as it were- and oh boy, was _someone_ not ready to come out of the closet. Stiles had spent an hour consoling a crying shirtless guy on his couch that no, his lifestyle isn't sick, and yes, he should tell his girlfriend. Lucas had nodded fervently, kissed Stiles' cheek and left, thanking him for 'showing him the way life should be lived.'  
  
So that was it. Tally of the night: one hickey, one freakout and no touching of dicks whatsoever. So Stiles did what anyone would; drank two bottles of beer, jerked off and rewatched the series finale of Breaking Bad on Netflix. Then he passed out crying.  
  
Which leads him to where he is now; Thursday morning, with a scarf and a bitch of a hangover. When he strides into the staff room in the morning, Isaac frowns. Derek and Allison, working on lessons in the corner, lift their heads.  
  
"Why are you trying to look like me?" Isaac asks, head tilted. "It really doesn't work on you."  
  
"It so does," Stiles retorts, and flips him the finger. "I look great."  
  
"You _look_ like you're wearing another graphic tee," Allison butts in. "Lydia's going to kill you."  
  
Ah, fuck. Fuck fuck fucking _fuck._ He forgot about the stupid sweater vests. Dammit.  
  
Danny wanders into the staff room, pauses and then whistles. "Nice, Stilinski," he calls. "You look _wrecked_."  
  
"Fuck off Danny," Stiles snaps. "You're not even a teacher- you can't use the staff room."  
  
Allison snickers. He loves her. He really does.   
  
Danny is unfazed. "The day you can make the coffee machine work is the day you can kick me out. Hookup not everything you wanted?"  
  
Stiles barks out a laugh, holding out an empty cup for Danny to fill. "Hookup? Did you mean gay crisis?"  
  
"Ouch." Danny puts a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. The facade is ruined by the laugh he's barely containing. "Let me guess- closeted, first night out."  
  
Stiles takes off his sunglasses, winces. "He started sobbing. On my couch. I had to give him counselling, Danny. I should charge for that shit. I'm telling you, it was like I was back in college." He's suddenly thrust back into unpleasant memories of frat boys claiming that having a dick in your mouth could be platonic.  
  
Brojobs are not a thing. Never have been. Never will be.  
  
There's a cough from Derek. Stiles looks over to see him sitting stiffly, staring at the wall by Stiles' head. "Maybe we should stop discussing personal issues in the workspace?" Derek asks tensely.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes. God, what a tightass.  
  
"Not that Stiles has anything to discuss," Danny says, and shrieks when Stiles sets down his mug and proceeds to tackle him. "I withdraw, I withdraw," he whines, when Stiles has him in a headlock and is threatening castration.  
  
"Damn straight," Stiles mutters, staggering back and reaching for his coffee again. "Or. You know. Not."  
  
The rest of the day is pretty awful- punctuated by a memorable event when Casey points to his neck and asks how he hurt it. Stiles hesitates for a fraction of a second before saying that he'd pinched himself by accident, and sends his gratitude to God that seven year olds possess minimal critical thinking skills.  
  
He's packing up at the end of the day, thankful for small mercies like elementary school finishing times, when Derek appears at the door. He stands there, silent and awkward, for a full minute.  
  
"Yo," Stiles says eventually, balancing a cactus in one hand and three folders in the other. "Can I help?"  
  
"Um," Derek says. "Sorry, it's just, I know you're probably busy, but my car's at the service and I need a lift...my sister's over from New York and I don't want her to be alone when she gets home..."  
  
"Oh," Stiles says. He blows out a breath. "Uh." He casts around for a good reason to refuse Derek, and can't find one that doesn't make him look like even more of an asshole. "Sure. I guess." He deserves _so_ much karma for this.   
  
Derek looks relieved. "Thanks. Do you want me to-" he gestures towards the cactus.  
  
"Here. One of the kids got it for me yesterday." Stiles hands it over. "His name is Daryl. Be careful."  
  
"Daryl?"  
  
"Well, it was originally Batman, but the Superman fans kicked up shit, and there was this classroom-wide debate that lasted for at least twenty minutes. Hair-pulling was involved. So I put my foot down."  
  
"Did you..." Derek frowns, studying the cactus intently. "Name it after the Walking Dead character?"  
  
Stiles nearly drops his folders. "What? No. Maybe."   
  
"You're kind of a nerd," Derek says, and when Stiles looks up to protests, he's smiling. Okay.  
  
"Says the guy who got all of the references."  
  
Derek shrugs, and they begin walking to the carpark. "I don't really agree with your theory about Daenerys, but, yeah."  
  
"What?" Stiles screeches. Nobody messes with the Khaleesi. More proof that Derek sucks. "How can you not?"  
  
"I'm more of an Arya fan."  
  
"Well, yeah, she's cool-" Stiles struggles to locate his Jeep but manages to remember where he's parked it. Which is in the opposite direction. He spins with as much dignity as possible. "But dragons."  
  
"The direwolves are better."  
  
Something clicks, and Stiles' world turns on its axis. "Wait," he hisses, coming to an abrupt stop by his car. "You totally called your class a pack because of Game of Thrones."  
  
Derek stares back at him. "I like wolves," he says evasively.   
  
"You did, didn't you?" Stiles laughs, throwing open the driver's door. "Oh man, that is so much less lame now I know why you do it."  
  
Derek hesitates before getting in the passenger seat. "You thought it was lame?" he asks, holding Daryl in his lap.  
  
"Ah, shit." Stiles curses his mouth. "No? Not really. I mean, I go with superheroes, so, you know- pot meet kettle."  
  
Derek is silent as the cat starts, rumbles to life. Stiles bites the inside of his mouth, wishing for some kind of time-travelling device.   
  
"You don't like me very much," he says, finally, and Stiles nearly smashes his car into a stoplight.  
  
"What? Of course I do," Stiles lies, grasping at the last remaining shreds of his dignity. "You're a..." Stiles searches desperately. "Cool dude."  
  
Wow. He's metamorphosed into a middle-aged dad trying to keep up with the hip new trends.   
  
"No," says Derek. "I mean- it's okay. I get it." He pauses, and Stiles is struck through with shame because he is _awful_. "I'm not the easiest to get along with."  
  
"Uh," says Stiles, and takes the turn that Google Maps tells him to. "Well, everyone adores you, so it's probably me."  
  
Derek looks genuinely confused, his eyebrows furrowing into one super massive monobrow. "What?"  
  
"Dude. The entire staff love you hardcore. It's kind of creepy."   
  
"No they don't."  
  
_"Turn left in 2 miles."_  
  
Stiles blinks at him, and laughs. "Uh, yes they do. Joanne freaking gives you an extra chocolate chip cookie. That woman wouldn't give her dying grandmother one of those. Don't get me started on Tiffany."  
  
_"Take the second exit on the right in 1 mile."_  
  
"Joanne doesn't give you an extra cookie?" Derek seems upset at this piece of information. "And Tiffany?"  
  
"Joanne would probably hack my legs off if I ever tried to get one, dude." Stiles snorts. "And are you saying you've never realized Tiffany is trying to smother you in cleavage?"  
  
"No."  
  
_"Keep straight on the roundabout."_  
  
"Do you have eyes?"  
  
Derek looks to be struggling with himself on a deep existential level. "I didn't...notice."  
  
_"You have arrived at your destination."_  
  
It's like, an actual house, with a door and windows and stuff. It's looks cozy, with two stories, painted white. There's even a little garden out front with a fence and flowers. Way nicer than Stiles' shit-tastic apartment. It figures that Derek would have a better everything- home, interpersonal skills, body. _Sigh._  
  
"Well, we're here. Nice place you got here, dude. With the, uh...curtains." Stiles groans internally.  
  
"Thanks," Derek says awkwardly. "For the ride. I, uh, I'm sorry that I'm...you don't...like. Me." He begins to get out of the car. "Wait. I've got your cactus."  
  
"I'll just, uh, take him then." Stiles grabs Daryl, who is mute about the proceedings. "Have fun with your sister."  
  
_Have fun with your sister? What the fuck? This isn't freaking Flowers in the Attic._  
  
"I will." Derek shuts the door, and stands in front of the car, arms crossed. He looks miserable, which is probably what makes Stiles roll down the window, because he is a massive sucker for sad people. Even Derek.  
  
"Derek?" he calls.   
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You're, um," Stiles sighs. "You're okay, man. Seriously. You're a good guy."  
  
Which is true. Like, _objectively_ true. Even if Stiles doesn't want to admit it. The guy is genuinely nice, and polite, and it's irritating but the truth.  
  
Derek's face, awash in the headlights, shifts into a small smile. His shoulders straighten up, his eyes brightening. "Thanks," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Stiles is just about to roll up the window when Derek says, "Don't forget about the clothes."  
  
Ah, _fuck._

 

* * *

  
  
"All I'm saying, Scott," Stiles stuffs a muesli bar into his face, and crumbs fall out onto Scott's upholstery. "Is that I've gotta be a better person."  
  
"Yeah," says Scott. "Okay. Is Allison there this morning?"  
  
"Oh my god do you hear anything I'm saying?"  
  
Scott snorts. "You're gonna be nicer to Derek because you've gotta move past being a child, and he's not a bad guy and you're kind of an immature idiot-"  
  
"Um, that's not exactly the words I'd use, but yeah." Stiles shrugs, and plucks at his sweater-vest. He'd practically bought out the men's department at Walmart last night. "How do I look?"  
  
Scott blinks at him, his huge brown eyes hesitant. "Uh," he says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't think button-ups are supposed to be that tight. You look a little..." Scott waves a hand. "Gay porn star-ish."  
  
"I _what_."  
  
"No, no it's cool. Just, you know. With the hair and the jeans-"  
  
Stiles groans. "I look like a twink, don't I?"  
  
"Yeah, kind of," Scott agrees. "Like, an attractive one, though."  
  
"Oh thanks, I'm sure the _seven-year olds_ I teach will totally appreciate it." Stiles runs a hand through his hair, which doesn't help anything. "How do you even know what a gay porn star looks like?"  
  
"I dunno man, I was curious. I was like, you know, how do guys do it? So I found out. It looked kind of hard. Fun, though." Scott nods agreeably, stopping at the lights.  
  
Stiles just stares at him. "If you were anyone else, I'd swear you were in the closet, you know that? But I'm actually thinking you're that much of a dumbass."  
  
"Nah." Scott waves a hand. "I did the experimenting thing in college-"  
  
"Wait-"  
  
"-and it wasn't for me."  
  
Stiles slumps back into the seat and stares at the ceiling. "Oh my god," he says. "What is going on."  
  
Scott draws into the school's teacher carpark jerkily. "Here you go, bro," he says. "Go rock the porn star look."  
  
"Thanks, Scott." Stiles gets out, clutching files and a bag, and stumbles onto the concrete. "I'll see you."  
  
"Tell Allison about me," Scott yells, pulling away. "And be nice to Derek!"  
  
When Stiles gets to the staff-room, Danny bursts out laughing.   
  
"Oh my god. This is even better than I thought it was going to be. Are you auditioning for Cocky Boys?"  
  
"Shut. Up." Stiles growls, and holds out his mug. "Give me coffee."  
  
"I don't know man, you might have to suck my dick first." Danny, who looks both attractive and non-porny, pours the coffee, still chuckling. Stiles fantasises about punching him in the face repeatedly. "I swear you look like you've just stepped off a set. Who wears shirts that tight? And those jeans? Is that _glitter?"_  
  
"Fuck off," Stiles says, without heat. He leans against the counter and sips. "It was the best Walmart could offer."  
  
"Well," says Allison, sweeping into the room. "I think you look nice." She kisses Stiles' cheek. He might melt a little bit. "Very professional."  
  
"I bet," Danny mutters. But even he's cowed by Allison, both due to her pure sweetness, and the fact she could shoot him in the eye from fifty yards. Stiles imagines an arrow colliding with Danny's face for a moment, and is deeply comforted.  
  
_Fuck you,_ Stiles mouths. Danny gets a glint in his eye that is vaguely reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter.  
  
"Hey," Danny says. "Derek. Don't you think Stiles looks like a porn star?" He doesn't break eye contact with Stiles, the evil fuck.   
  
Derek, sitting silently in the corner, snaps his neck up. He stares, opens his mouth and then shuts it helplessly. "I wouldn't...know," he says awkwardly, and looks down again.  
  
"Ah, come on." Danny ruffles Stiles' hair and pats his butt. "We're all thinking it."  
  
"I'm not," says Isaac, his disembodied voice floating in from the hallway.  
  
"This is sexual harassment," Stiles hisses. "I'll report you all."  
  
"I'm sorry, are you or are you not the same person who gave me a Captain America lingerie set for Secret Santa last year?" Danny asks.  
  
"Okay, well I was drunk when I bought that," Stiles says, and frowns. "And come on, dude, that's an awesome present. It was a joke."  
  
"And I'm joking now." Danny pauses. "Stiles Stilinski is a pretty good porn name though."  
  
_"No it is not."_  
  
"This conversation is really not appropriate," Derek says. He looks panicked. "I think we should stop it."  
  
_Thank you Derek_ , Stiles thinks, which is probably the first time those words have ever been used together.   
  
They are saved from further discussion when the bell rings. At least seven year olds won't make fun of him.   
  
"Hey, Mr S," says Jack, when he gets to the classroom. "You look kinda funny today."  
  
Well. That's just perfect.

 

* * *

  
  
"Okay, kids," Stiles says. "Do you know what tomorrow night is?"  
  
"HALLOWEEN," the class all but screams. Stiles is fairly certain one of his eardrums shatters.   
  
"Uh," he winces. "You got it. So you know what we're doing today?"  
  
"Eating candy?" Kevin asks.  
  
"No, Kevin," Stiles sighs. "That's tomorrow. Today, we are making some spooky decorations! We're gonna do some ghosts, some spiders and," Stiles gestures to the absolute masterpiece he constructed last night, "some pasta-skeletons."  
  
With glitter hell _yes_. Stiles is the king of glitter. He has literal boxes of the shit- all the colours of the rainbow, big pieces, little pieces. If it's shiny then he wants it. Even now there's glitter everywhere on him; his hair, his palms, his fucking sweater vest. He looks like Mardi Gras threw up on him.  
  
And look, whatever else he might suck at, arts and crafts is his kingdom. Christmas, Valentine's Day, Thanksgiving- he doesn't need an excuse. He makes all the classroom decorations himself- the boards, the streamers, the cool print-outs of superheroes pinned to the wall. Even now, he spent hours slaving over the little paper bats that are hung from the lights, and the cotton-cobwebs stuck to the corners of the room. It looks awesome. Way better than Derek's classroom. Well. Not that he's _seen_ Derek's, but still. He carved the pumpkin on his desk into the Avengers symbol, alright? Give him some credit.  
  
His class gets busy tapping into their creative sides- gluing macaroni to black cardboard, screwing pipe cleaners together, sticking googly-eyes to their forehead-  
  
Wait. No. That's just Kevin. Stiles sighs, and ignores it. If something goes wrong there'll be screaming.  
  
He does a couple of circuits around the classroom while the kids work on their stuff, making sure everything's going okay, asking what awesome costumes are in store. Jack tells him that he's going as Iron Man and Stiles feels a surge of teacherly pride. Anna and Clara are going as matching fairy princesses, while Georgia- the unrivalled queen of the first grade social life- is going as Tiana. Kevin is going to be Einstein. Stiles has to look away to avoid crying with laughter.  
  
It's not until he gets to Patrick that anything really requires his attention. The kid is sitting quietly by himself, not talking.  
  
"Hey," Stiles says. "What's up?"  
  
"Nothing." Patrick kicks his chair. "I can't go trick-or-treating, that's all." He stares straight ahead.   
  
Stiles squats so he's eye level with Pat. "How come?"  
  
"My mom has work." Pat's voice is a monotone, like he's been fed the line. "So me and Sarah have to stay home."  
  
Ah. That'd be right. Pat's mom works double-time to provide for her two kids. Pat's older sister is in Allison's class this year, and she and Stiles had discussed the whole thing pretty heavily. Mrs Morris couldn't even stay more than ten minutes at the parent-teacher conferences. She's an awesome lady though; tough and fierce. It's not her fault Pat can't go tomorrow night.   
  
It does kind of break Stiles' heart though.  
  
"Hey," he says. "It's okay. My dad- he's sheriff, you might know him- sometimes couldn't take me trick-or-treating either."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yep. And I felt pretty sad about it too. But your mom loves you a lot, and that's a lot more important than some candy." Stiles smiles at him.  
  
Pat straightens a little bit and smiles back- a gap-toothed, crooked one. "Thanks Mr S," he says. "Can I have the glitter?"  
  
That kid is the best. Stiles grabs a tub of red glitter and hands it to Pat. "Go wild," Stiles says and stands up. "I wanna see that cardboard covered."  
  
There's a knock at the door. It's Derek. Why is Derek here?   
  
"Can I help you, Mr Hale?" Stiles asks, in full-on teacher mode.  
  
"Uh." Derek looks wild; his hair is messy and his sweater is covered in...are those dried pieces of macaroni? "Stiles- Mr S, I mean. I would really appreciate it if you helped us out with the macaroni skeletons." Derek's eyes plead for mercy.  
  
There's a burning sense of justice that rises in Stiles' stomach. He gives Derek a shit-eating smile. "Having trouble?"  
  
His class laughs. It's like having a personal miniature army to back him up.  
  
"Yes," says Derek, completely free of any bitterness. Damn. You couldn't even gloat over the guy properly. "Fred glued a pipecleaner to the inside of his nose. He had to go to the nurse."  
  
"Seriously?" Stiles snorts. "That's-"  
  
Derek coughs.  
  
"...really unfortunate," Stiles finishes, remembering he's surrounded by children.   
  
"Here," Derek says, handing him a macaroni skeleton. "Just- fix it. Please."  
  
It looks less like a skeleton, and more like some kind of mutant dinosaur preparing to devour Stiles' soul. "Wow, Mr Hale," he says smarmily. "That's really something you've got here."  
  
Derek- for the first time Stiles can remember- glares at him. It's kind of intimidating. "I'm aware," he says, with gritted teeth.   
  
"Uh, I don't think I can fix this, actually. I think it's pretty much beyond fixing. Just," Stiles casts his gaze around, "take mine. Use it as a template, just- for the love of god, don't make anything like that again."  
  
He shoves his macaroni skeleton into Derek's hands.   
  
"Is it really that bad?" Derek asks, comparing the two with a frown on his face.  
  
Stiles pats his arm, which is unsurprisingly very muscly. His hand lingers for probably a little longer than it should. "Worse," he says.  
  
Derek's gaze wanders across to his cheekbones. "You've got glitter all over your face."  
  
"Yeah. I the stuff gets everywhere. This morning I think I found some-" Stiles swallows back the words in my underpants just in time. "In my cereal," he finishes weakly, and swipes his face.   
  
Derek grins. "You just kind of spread it around."  
  
"Damnit." Stiles licks his fingers and scrubs at his cheek. "Is it gone?"  
  
He looks up to see Derek blink and flick his eyes away. "Yeah," he says. His voice is weird. "You got it. I- uh, I'm gonna get back to my class..." He turns and nearly trips over a desk in his haste to get out.  
  
"Bye Stiles," Stiles mutters under his breath in a absurdly deep voice. "Thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it." He switches back to his normal tone. "That's cool Derek. I love helping out the unfortunate-"  
  
"Are you okay, Mr S?" Jack asks.   
  
Stiles makes a face at the door. "I'm great, Jack. Just great."

 

* * *

  
  
Halloween passes with little ceremony- by which Stiles means he got drunk with Scott and watched horror movies and ate kid's candy until he felt sick.   
  
He's learned a lot of things. How to grow up is not one of them.

 

* * *

  
  
The next Sunday, he's running near the preserve, with some Nicki Minaj blasting in his ears because he's secure enough in his masculinity that he can enjoy it without shame, when he manages to slam right into another runner.   
  
It's a woman; dark hair, strong jaw, ripped as fuck. She looks him up and down. "Might want to watch where you're going," she says, arching an eyebrow. Wow. She's pretty.  
  
Stiles, sprawled on the ground, nods dumbly. "O-kay," he says, and blinks at her until she sighs and helps him up.   
  
"I'm Laura," she says. "Nice to meet you."  
  
"Stiles. I mean- that's my name. And it's nice to meet-"  
  
"Stiles?"  
  
"Uh," he laughs awkwardly. "It's a nickname, but my real name's kind of-"  
  
"You teach at Beacon Hills Elementary right?" Laura grins at him, flashing her white, straight teeth.  
  
Oh god she's a stalker. She's stalked him here and now she is going to crush him with her thighs and keep him hostage in her basement for the next three years before he makes his heroic escape. His dad's going to be so worried-  
  
"You know my brother Derek."  
  
Oh.   
  
Stiles relaxes minutely. "Oh. Yeah I know him. Wait." He freezes as something occurs to him. "Derek _talked_ about me?"  
  
Laura's smile is distinctly predatory. "What do you think of my brother?" she asks, completely ignoring his question.  
  
"Derek?" Stiles laughs nervously, somehow convinced she can see into his mind. "He's cool. Good with the kids."  
  
Laura's eyes- the same green as Derek's, don't ask him how he knows that- scan his face. She pops out a toned hip. "That's all?"  
  
"Um. Yes?"  
  
"Well." She shrugs elegantly. "If you're sure."  
  
The Hale family is weird as _fuck._ "Yes? I mean, I don't know what else you want me to say?" Stiles scratches his head. Fuck. There's glitter on his hand.   
  
"Oh you know. I'm his big sister. Just want to keep tabs on him. What he's doing, what he's saying," Laura sidles closer to him, "who he's dating..." She puts a solid hand on Stiles' shoulder. "He's a great guy. He deserves a really nice person."  
  
_What is going on._  
  
"Okay?" Stiles says, kind of freaked out. Laura Hale is a terrifying woman. "But I don't think he's seeing anyone. At least I haven't heard him mention a girlfriend or anything so you're all good on those counts."  
  
Laura recedes, and rolls her eyes in another abrupt change of mood. It's giving him whiplash. "He's right about you. See you round, Stiles." She plugs her headphones back in, and without a word, jogs away.  
  
"Right about what?" Stiles yells after her rapidly. "What did he say about me?"  
  
It's no use; she's disappeared around the bend in the path. Stiles kicks the ground sulkily. Derek's probably bitching about him.   
  
On another note, is the whole damn family Olympic-level athletes? He can only dream about the kind of muscle tone those guys are sporting.   
  
Unfair. Stiles hooks his headphones back in, and is greeted by Nicki Minaj calling him a stupid hoe. She's probably right.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the next two chapters will be up soon. expect fluff and loads of glittery nice stuff.
> 
> also if any of you want to beta that would be so cool
> 
> thank you for reading and I value your feedback! seriously though. I do.


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